


Broken Ribs- Prompt Fill

by captaincravatthecapricious



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Disabled Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Disassociation, Fainting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Nausea, Pain, Whump, hospital mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29187288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincravatthecapricious/pseuds/captaincravatthecapricious
Summary: What if the Hunters broke Jon's ribs in America?  In other words, Jon does not have fun on an airplane.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	Broken Ribs- Prompt Fill

**Author's Note:**

> cws: nausea, injury, disassociation, hospital mention, fainting

The air of the airport is oppressive.Close and loud with the pain lancing through Jon’s chest. Bustling people, ridiculously wide expanses of space all somehow abandoned and bustling at the same time. 

It’s hot.He’s too hot. 

Shoulder straps of his bag digging into his back, bracing against the weight, crushing ribs that crunch sickeningly as he jogs on hole ridden legs, shoes with worn down soles skidding, only grasping purchase with the help of his cane. 

He can’t miss his next plane.He can’t.He needs to get back home… or rather the Institute.He doesn’t really have a home anymore, does he?Not his flat, certainly, and not with Georgie. 

Just one more flight.A long one, but at least there will be no more running to catch planes, inconveniently at opposite ends of massive American airports. 

Airports are already weird, empty spaces where everything is big and loud and expensive and sleepy all at once.Places where time has no meaning at all, and everyone is in both business dress and pajamas, sometimes at the same time.But adding the whole American thing to it… is odd.It’s not that it makes that much of a difference, every airport is actually very similar, but there is still something about the tang of ‘Rugged American Individualism’ that makes his skin crawl. 

Or maybe that’s the lack of sleep, and the lack of a proper shower in… too long.He hates this.He hates this.He can’t stand the feeling of grit on his skin…. not since Prentiss, not since the circus.Between traveling and being followed and kidnaped again and now traveling some more… he’s sweaty and grimy and he wants to tear his skin off, or at the very least scrub it raw.Cut his nails to the quick, wash his hair a dozen times, scrub himselfagain for an hour under as hot water as he can stand for as long as his useless legs will hold him up. 

He gets to his gate as the plane is boarding.Barely in time. 

They take his cane at the front and he wants to cry.Limping to his seat in the very back, vision getting spotty with pain.He Really should have someone look at his ribs, they haven’t been right since the kidnapping.Just the universe’s punching bag, isn’t he? Kicked in the ribs by hunters.He hadn't even Done anything.(Well... he has now, but he hadn't at that point!

He just about collapses in his seat. 

Middle seat.Shit. 

Christ he's dizzy.Wouldn't be surprised if he's running a fever from the pain.His body sending all sorts of signals of distress: thirsty, nauseous, tired, shaky, panicked that he needs something or he'll pass out or cry, or.... or... or.... he doesn't know. 

There is a tap on his shoulder.Window seat passenger wants to get through.Jon carefully eases himself to his feet.Trying very hard not to wince, or puke, or pass out.He limps his way up just far enough that Window Seat can get through.Just. 

His ribs crunch as he sits again.He tries to covertly wipe the thin sheet of sweat from his forehead.A poor effort to detract from the attention his pallor and limp are surely getting him. 

He sits absolutely still.His nose itches, but no... moving to scratch it would hurt too much.He just... won't move.The whole flight, ideally.But surely his bladder and bad leg will have other ideas about that.Jon sighs as shallowly as possible.Breathing hurts. 

He drifts out of consciousness for a while.Isle Seat arrives at some point.The plane starts taxiing.Jon doesn't remember the pieces, but they occur. 

He does notice the plane taking off.The acceleration of the plane.The stomach dropping climb.And all Jon can think of is falling.Aching chest tighter with panic. 

The smell of tea made too dark and with too much lemon.What would have been a pleasant and soothing voice if he hadn't been plummeting with the acceleration of -9.81 meters per second per second without even the comfort of air resistance.Oxygen moving by too fast to snag a breath.He could have been falling for seconds, minutes, days, weeks, years, and it would have made no difference.Hitting the ground would have even been a comfort at that point. 

He's gasping.Chest crunching under the strain of his breathing through the vice grip of terror. 

He orders himself to take a very shallow, very measured breath.The plane is leveling out, and he doesn't want to attract any more attention. 

Luckily he has always been good about deflecting attention.Had a panic attack in the middle of a maths class in secondary school, and not a soul noticed.Window Seat is staring out the window in fascination as the houses get ever smaller and are eaten up by the cloud cover.Isle Seat is napping. 

Jon is very very very glad that he hasn't run out of dramamine yet or ...he would be a lot more not okay than he already is.He is out of pain meds.Unfortunately. 

Should have bought some in America.You can get big bottles there.Big bottles.And God knows he needs them. 

He clasps his hands tightly and try to pull his breathing into a careful and shallow rhythm. 

He is drifting again when Window Seat lowers their armrest.It strikes him on the way down.Brushes him, really.He bites down a yelp.He curls protectively around his ribs, which causes them to crunch again.That Really isn't healthy sounding.Spots dance across his vision again. 

He isn't sure how much time passes before Window Seat makes to get up.He almost doesn't have the energy to stand. 

He's seeing spots again, and he doesn't know how he will manage to let Window Seat back in. 

The seat in front of him has lowered their seat.Jon, in the back row can't tilt his back.Christ it hurts.It all hurts.The turbulence, the standing and sitting for Window Seat, the drinks cart making far too many rounds.He doesn't get anything.Can't stomach the snacks or the provided dinner, barely manages a couple sips from his own water bottle.He knows his leg would thank him if he got up and moved around, but the thought of standing is too much.The movie that he tried to watch was too grating and it just added to how Loud the plane is.Almost as loud as his hammering heart and the aching of his chest.He can't do it.He can't do it.He can't do it. 

He bites back a scream when Window Seat orders another drink.The flight attendant jostling his ribs again, passing over the beverage.This has to be the third or forth time.How many drinks can one passenger need?How many more before Window Seat will need the loo again, dragging Jon to his aching feet again? 

Jon bites back tears.He was awoken by Window Seat again.He'd apparently fallen asleep on Isle Seat....Or maybe passed out.Jon doesn't know.He's too dizzy.He doesn't look at Isle Seat.He wants to apologize, but the thought of speaking sounds too painful.He clings to control of his breathing.Shallow breaths.Slow, shallow breaths.Don't make the ribs worse, don't make the pain worse. 

Jon doesn't remember letting Window Seat back in.He possibly remembers standing?Possibly remembers black spots eating through his vision?And then he's face down on his grimy tray table.A face full of the novel he picked up in the airport on his trip Before getting his ribs busted.He's pretty sure he passed out and hand't fallen asleep, but he can't be certain. 

The flight attendant is shaking him awake, and Jon tries to hide the tears of pain that causes.Yes, yes, he knows.Tray tables needs to be folded away before they land. 

Getting off the plane is hard.Window Seat is anxiously out of their seat and getting their luggage, meaning that Jon has to decide if he would rather sit back down, only to have to stand again when the way was finally clear, or he'd have to stand without his cane , bent at an awkward angle.All after digging under his seat for his bag.He thinks keeping it under his seat is easier on his ribs than getting it into and out of the overhead compartment... but he doesn't know.He is fighting unconsciousness again. 

The plane is too hot.Too loud.His head hurts.His ribs hurt.Sick with pain, and shaky with hungry and dehydration.He isn't sure that food wouldn't make him feel worse, however.He skipped provided breakfast as well. 

At least he can't remember much of the flight.Probably a blessing. 

He finally limps to the front of the plane.He almost cries with relief when he is handed back his cane.He's so tired.So tired. 

At least he doesn't need to get any luggage.All he has is is backpack and cane.And a text from Elias saying Daisy is already there to pick him up. 

Right. 

Best not to keep her waiting. 

He doesn't think he can survive any more aggression.Not for a while. 

He's too tired to even panic about being alone with her. 

She shakes him roughly when she spots him.Demands to know why it took him so long, why he didn't text. All but shoves him into the car.That's more than he can take.He passes out.Cane clattering to the pavement, head striking the wheel with the force of his momentum. 

When he comes to, he is being carried. He hurts too badly to move, feels too sick to think.He moans into the chest of whoever is carrying him.Doesn't even have it in him to start in fear when he realizes the only one with biceps that big and fair is Daisy. 

They are going down a flight of stairs.He wonders vaguely if she's going to kill him... but then realizes he might take that as a mercy right about now. 

Except she doesn't kill him.She's taken him to the Archives.He can hear Martin. 

"Daisy!Jon!Daisy, what did you do!What did you do to him?"

Him... Jon?He tries to ask what the fuss is about, but only manages another moan. 

"I didn't break him.Your problem now."She grunts that out, and plops Jon into Martin's lap.At least he thinks... after he possibly blacks out again. 

Martin is patting his face.Martin is patting his face."Hey, Jon?Can you open your eyes for me?"Jon tries.And fails.Eyelids too heavy."Jon, what's wrong?"

"Hurts," he whispers. 

"Hurts where?"Martin is cupping his face.Jon starts crying. 

He can't respond. 

"Jon can I take you to hospital?Please?”

“Ribs..."

"Jon, please?"

Jon doesn't want to go to the hospital, he just wants to sleep.Possibly just sleep right there and never move again.Martin is warm and soft and smells nice and is quiet.But he doesn't have energy to argue.He makes a noncommittal sound."Stay?"

"Yeah, of course.I'll call us a cab, yeah?Get you checked out, then... you could come to mine, if you like?" 

Jon really doesn't have the energy to respond, so he just... gives it up and closes his eyes.Letting himself drift and not worry about getting carried.Maybe if he's lucky he'll either sleep or disassociate long enough that he doesn't have to actually think about the hospital.Maybe he'll come back to himself on Martin's couch.He even lets himself hope that maybe someone will take the initiative and clean him up first.The idea of other hands on him would ordinarily be horrifying, but he's just too tired to care.For now... he'll just sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, leave me a comment if you enjoyed! I am captaincravatthecapricious on tumblr! I am still accepting bingo prompts, send me a prompt, a character, and let me know if you want a fic or a drawing! Have a lovely day!


End file.
